


Scars

by SherlocksSister



Series: One Day at a Time For Ever and Ever [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John is a Horndog, John's Voice, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, New Relationship, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Porn With Plot, Relationship Negotiation, Romance, Scars, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock's Voice, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John begin to explore how this new relationship will work and consider their own reservations. </p>
<p>"Today, however, he had found himself standing in front of his wardrobe, still damp and with water dripping from his hair onto his naked body, racked with indecision. He was trying to work out what John would like to see him wearing. Then he was trying to understand why that mattered"</p>
<p>Starts the morning after my work The Room of Light, which you may want to read first</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aiming to Please

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Madam_Fandom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madam_Fandom/gifts).



> who said such kind things about The Room of Light and asked for more.

Unselfconsciously John put his hand on his own naked backside and rubbed. He had a bit of an ache down his right leg this morning and it seemed to particularly pinch in his buttock. Sciatic nerve pain, he self-diagnosed, the result of unusual physical activity and not getting any bloody younger. A paracetamol would solve the problem and maybe a few stretches. He left the sink where he had been washing up the breakfast dishes and headed up to his bedroom to find his medical bag.

Somehow his room seemed different this morning, no longer his space but just another room. He grinned at himself, deciding he was jumping the gun a bit if he was already planning on moving his belongings downstairs. One day at a time, they had agreed and he needed that as much as Sherlock did. John was ecstatically happy; he felt the very same as he had when he was 8 years old and had been given the bright red chopper bike for Christmas, but he did have some reservations about this change in his relationship with Sherlock.

For a start was the simple fact that Sherlock was a bloke. There was no doubting the fact that John fancied the pants off him, but he was unsure of the dynamics, the protocols and the rules. He laughed at himself then. If there were rules to a gay relationship, Sherlock would undoubtedly be breaking them anyway so what did it matter if John knew them. Oh well, they would just have to muddle through and find out what suited them. Will Sherlock be into public displays of affection, he wondered. John had always been very fond of holding hands.

Paracetamol located, he headed back downstairs and was just filling a glass of water when a freshly dressed Sherlock appeared, hair wet and smelling of lemons with a musky undertone. John was reminded of lemon curd and felt the overwhelming desire to lick the last remaining droplet of water that had fallen from Sherlock’s hair onto his clavicle. He forced his hand to stay around the glass of water and not reach out to run his fingers around the bicep clad in a clean white shirt. With a start, John realised what he was doing.

“John, why are you looking at me like that?” began Sherlock, watching the changing expressions flit across John’s face. Unexpectedly, he crossed the kitchen in two long strides and wrapped his arms around John

“Yes, you can touch”

“I know. It’s just. Well, force of habit I suppose. I have spent so long _not_ touching you that it seems old habits die hard”. John opened his eyes and found himself looking at the sharp edges of Sherlock’s collar bone and gave in and licked it. His stomach lurched and he put down the glass and tablets and returned the hug. They stood together just holding one another for a long moment, until John pulled away and swallowed the paracetamol. His leg was still aching.

“What are your plans for the day?” he enquired.

“We need to see Lestrade at some point today, provide our statements for the theft yesterday. I had also planned to do some research into diamonds. I became aware of some rather serious gaps in my knowledge when we were in the bank and I wish to rectify that immediately. Did you have plans?”

John considered for a moment. He had a shift at the surgery the next day and had intended to spend the day stocking the fridge and writing his first draft of the case notes for his blog. Nothing too pressing.

“Will we go to the station first then, get it over and done with?”

“Indeed. Maybe you could get dressed first. I am finding your” Sherlock ran his eyes slowly up John’s bare legs and chest gaping through the dressing gown “nakedness distracting”. John was sorely tempted to just drop the dressing gown to the floor to see what Sherlock would do, but resisted. Later, he promised himself, when he could take his time and he could begin to learn more about his new lover.

“Agreed, I’m off to have a shower. I’ll be ready in twenty minutes” He was sure the warm water would help ease the ache.

*      *      *

Drying himself from the shower, Sherlock began to get dressed. He had a preferred way to dress, enjoyed the routine of putting on certain things in a certain order. He loved clothes and always had since he was a very small boy. He was acutely aware of how they changed the way other people regarded you and had often used this to manipulate situations to his advantage.

At times he used his clothes as an armour, deliberately cultivating an image of wealth and class; it put others at a disadvantage and they were often more revealing to him when they were trying to impress him. He also enjoyed creating an effective disguise.

Today, however, he had found himself standing in front of his wardrobe, still damp and with water dripping from his hair onto his naked body, racked with indecision. He was trying to work out what John would like to see him wearing. Then he was trying to understand why that mattered.

It had taken him a good ten minutes to settle on his usual black, fitted suit trousers, not the very tightest pair but not the oldest ones either. His choice of shirt was then narrowed down to a light blue or a white one. He was aware that the white one had a certain translucency that might appeal to John so decided on that one. What he couldn’t understand was why he was choosing to dress in a way to appeal to John, who had made it quite clear the previous night that he found Sherlock attractive.

Whilst buttoning the shirt, he concluded that he wanted to make sure that John would continue to feel this way for a very long time and that he also wanted to try and give John that particular look that meant he wanted to touch Sherlock. That hungry look.

His efforts had been rewarded as soon as he had walked into the kitchen. The moment John had seen him, Sherlock could see the look of desire wash over John’s open face and it thrilled him. What he hadn’t been expecting was the instantaneous look of repression and guilt that had followed. Sherlock instinctively deduced the reason and had been moved to reassure John. He was somewhat relieved to not be the only one unnerved by this new territory they found themselves in.

While John himself washed and dressed, Sherlock curled up in his chair and thought. They were going to New Scotland Yard. Would John be intending to tell the people they knew their about the change in their relationship? Wasn’t that what people did? Made announcements? Sherlock’s mind then moved to Mycroft. He certainly didn’t need to know anyway. Although he probably already did. This thought annoyed Sherlock immensely and he was scowling when John reappeared, dressed in jeans and a blue and brown checked shirt.

“Sherlock. What is wrong?” John calmly asked. He had was a bit wary about what that huge brain may have talked itself into.

“John. Are we a couple now?”

“Oh. That’s, um a good question. I don’t know. Do you want to be?”

“I believe that we are definitely in a relationship of sorts but am unsure of the parameters of its definition. A couple would comply with the norms of social construct but I believe that in standardised patterns of behaviour, that too short a period of time has elapsed for us to define it in such a way”

John laughed “if I understand you correctly, you are saying that we are but you think it’s too soon to tell anyone?” Sherlock beamed.

“Exactly John. You are, as always, so much better at these things than me”.

“Come on, then. Let’s get this done. I have some plans for you later”

“Such as?”

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and held his gaze. He smirked.

“I’’ll tell you in the cab”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John conducts a small experiment of his own. Sherlock makes some dangerous plans
> 
> "Lestrade must be having the same row over and over with his wife. If only Lestrade had a John. Maybe he should help him find one. Now, that was a challenge Sherlock could enjoy."

Chapter 2

Sherlock, of course, instantly secured them a black cab as they left 221 Baker Street. John hopped in first and as Sherlock climbed in after him, he scooted back over so that he could press his thigh firmly against the other man’s long, lean thigh. Sherlock reached between them and took John’s hand in his own. Well that answered that question anyway.

He was glad that Sherlock had not wanted to announce this new development in their relationship from the rooftops to all and sundry; he wanted a chance to get used to it himself. Of course most of their friends would be very nonplussed by any grand announcement, they mostly believed himself and Sherlock to have been together for a while anyway. Frowning, John thought of Molly. She might need a gentler approach though. What would be kinder, he wondered, if he told her himself or would it be better coming from Sherlock? He left that one for later.

Gazing out of the window he watched their city pass in a blur, traffic lights just colourful smudges and people hurrying past on the pavements, fighting with umbrellas and avoiding the worst of the splashes from the speeding traffic. The cab was edging forward slowly as three lanes condensed into two and the buses pushed past in their own lane. He looked over at Sherlock who, to John’s surprise, was already watching him. John smiled, enjoying the warmth of Sherlock’s hand in his, aware of the callous on his thumb from the violin bow.

“I hope this doesn’t take too long” he muttered.

“What?” Sherlock had to lean in to hear the low voice.

“I hope this doesn’t take too long. I want to be back home with you” Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow.

“When we get home, I would like to do something I have often, often thought about” his voice was thicker now.

“And what would that be?”

“It’s your hair Sherlock. I would love to sit you on the floor, my legs on either side holding you and run my fingers slowly through your hair and over your scalp” John’s voice was now so low that Sherlock had to hold his ear right next to John’s lips, feeling the breath on his lobe and neck.

“Then I would trail my fingers up and down your neck. Just light, small strokes until your shoulders drop as your breathing deepens and your eyes close”

“And then?” Sherlock’s own voice was gentle and deep.

“Then, I would like to unbutton the top three buttons of your shirt, just enough to loosen it and still sitting behind you, I would carrying on stroking, moving onto your shoulders and collarbone. I have a bit of a thing for your clavicle Sherlock. Did you know that? Did you never deduce me looking at it, the sharp, clear lines of your bone under the tightly stretched skin?”

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes half closed, a deep grey-blue colour. They held each other’s gaze for a moment “I would like that” Sherlock whispered. “And what would you do next?” John gave him a small, slow smile.

“I would open another button, and maybe one more if needed. Just enough space to let me drift my hand inside your shirt so I could touch your nipple. The left one first, I think. I would drift my fingers over it and make it…”

“We’re here lads” The cabbie called, brightly. “That’ll be seventeen quid. Sorry it took a while, it’s the bloody weather”.

Sherlock closed his eyes just for a moment while John paid the cabbie.

*   *   *

Sherlock sighed. This is interminable. I may perish before we leave this room. He glanced around himself and calculated all the ways he could kill himself just with the contents of the office. He simultaneously watched Lestrade as he laboriously recorded all the details John was listing. Not enough sleep, a bad shave and crumpled shirt, he deduced. Slept on the sofa again and left home before having a wash. Shaved with an electric razor. Sherlock bent down and looked at the floor behind Lestrade’s desk. Shaved here in his office, in fact. Another row with his wife, wanted to avoid seeing her again this morning, he concluded. He gave Lestrade a pitying look. Why didn’t he just leave the woman, he wondered, yet again. He was bored asking himself that question, he couldn’t imagine how bored Lestrade must be having the same row over and over with his wife. If only Lestrade had a John. Maybe he should help him find one. Now, that was a challenge Sherlock could enjoy.

Lestrade was talking now. Sherlock listened for a moment

“Can’t understand why their own security checks didn’t spot him, why their psychometric tests didn’t”

Sherlock zoned out again. His looked at John, at his left hand resting on his own thigh. Sherlock thought about that hand, holding it in the cab while John’s voice had filled his head with those intriguing images. Getting out of the cab, John had rested it very lightly on the small of his back, just for a moment. Then, as they had been coming up in the lift, the same hand had again been at the small of his back until it drifted down and lightly held Sherlock’s buttock, just for a moment. Sherlock had been a bit surprised but it had been lovely. He wondered should he be returning these small gestures.

He suddenly realised John was looking at him, had asked him a question and was expecting an answer. Sherlock abruptly rose to his feet and swept out of the room “Come on John, I cannot abide this tedium one moment longer” he declared imperiously “Goodbye Lestrade. I have important research to do, only call me for an 8 or above”.

“That was rude” laughed John as they strode towards the lift to leave “poor Greg, he was only doing his job”.

“Hmmm. I had other things on my mind” Sherlock replied, quietly “And I have decided we are to find Lestrade his own John. I find the way his wife treats him entirely tedious. He has been good to me, he deserves better”. The lift doors opened and they stepped in.

“Don’t tell me you are coming over all roman” The end of the sentence was stopped in John’s throat by Sherlock turning and softly kissing him, just once and by the time the lift doors reopened they were both facing forward again, although John had a faintly silly smile.

“Lunch? We could go to that pub around the corner that Greg brought us to once, or maybe Indian?” wondered John.

“No. I think we should eat at home. Don’t you?”

*   *    *

The relief was enormous. It had taken a huge amount of self-control for John not to lunge at Sherlock since he had first stepped out of the shower this morning. He would have liked nothing better than to spend the whole day in bed with the man, but was determined not to pressure him. He had made Sherlock a promise the night before that their sexual relationship would progress only at a pace he was comfortable with. They both had their own past experiences and at some point soon, John would like to find out a bit more about those from Sherlock, but for the time being he was simply delighted that his attempts to get into Sherlock's mind had obviously worked. He had noticed how well Sherlock had responded to the way he had talked to him.

Reaching the privacy of 221 Baker Street at last, the second they were inside the front door, John took Sherlock firmly by the hand and led him upstairs to their flat. He had been heading for the sofa, but Sherlock had other ideas, pushing John up against the wall. Sherlock kissed him reverently, at first and John relaxed into him, stroking his arms as he had wanted to do all day.

“You’re gorgeous in that shirt. I can see a hint of your skin and it fits you perfectly”

Sherlock smiled and between small, feathery kisses on John’s eyelids, cheeks and nose explained “I wore it for you. I’m glad you like it”.

There was a frisson of excitement down John’s spine at the idea of Sherlock dressing to please him and he groaned. Holding Sherlock’s face in his hands he deepened the kiss, tongues grazing and, pulling the taller man down to him, holding him close.

“Would you like to come to bed?” John invited.

“Yes”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little teaser. The next chapter will be along very shortly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the broad daylight Sherlock and John get to know each other a little better.
> 
> “Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Have you any idea just how fucking sexy you are? No seriously, have you even the slightest understanding?”
> 
> Sherlock just gave a snort of laughter and the tension in the room eased. “I think that’s just you John, but I am deeply flattered. Now it’s your turn”.

“Would it be ok if I watched you undress?” asked John as he sat down on the end of the wooden bed as Sherlock bent and removed his shoes and socks. The long fingers moved to his waist and Sherlock removed his belt and the dark grey trousers. John admired the elegant long feet, sleekly muscled legs and the obvious bulge in the navy blue silk boxers. Sherlock was gazing back at John, meeting and holding his eyes. He carefully unbuttoned each cuff and then the front of the shirt. As he slipped it over his broad shoulders, John breathed out hard, not having realised he was holding his breath.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Have you any idea just how fucking sexy you are? No seriously, have you even the slightest understanding?”

Sherlock just gave a snort of laughter and the tension in the room eased. “I think that’s just you John, but I am deeply flattered. Now it’s your turn”.

John slipped out of his shoes and socks and began to unbutton his own shirt. He let his eyes trail away from the piercing gaze of the now naked Sherlock and looked down at himself.

“It’s very bright in here, would you mind if I closed the curtains?”

“May we leave them open? I would like to look at you. It was very dark last night. Would that be alright?”

John wasn’t sure how he felt about this but the sight of Sherlock, naked and lying stretched out on his side on top of the creamy bed, propped up on an elbow was enough to persuade him. The man positively deserved his own spotlight.

John climbed on to the bed and wrapped himself around Sherlock, warming their chilled skin. Sherlock seemed to be happy just to be in John’s arms and was stroking and petting his denser, more muscular body, drifting a gentle hand along John’s back, his torso, thighs and forearms.

“Your arms, John” Sherlock murmured “I love the strength of your biceps”, warm palms moving over John’s buttocks and up to his neck, making the man sigh deeply as he relaxed into the touch. Sherlock began to add soft kisses, raising himself up so he could reach more easily.

John moved to kiss him, soft, sweet, practically chaste little kisses with just their lips, running his own fingers through Sherlock’s curls and then doing it again just because he could, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck and inhaling the faint lemony tang remaining from the morning.

“What do you want Sherlock?” John sighed into the taught neck.

“This John. I want to see you, touch you, learn you” the strokes continued and John closed his eyes and relaxed into the longer, firmer strokes on his rib cage and up to his chest. Sherlock groaned slightly and lowered his face to rub it across the raised places of John’s pectoral muscles and kiss his way reverently up to John’s neck. It was only when every other inch of him had been smoothed and worshiped that John realised that Sherlock was now kissing the skin around the perimeter of the gunshot scar on his shoulder.

“John, may I touch it. I know it doesn’t hurt but would you prefer I didn’t?”

John wasn’t sure what he minded. Sherlock was only millimetres away from the scar and no one else had ever been so close. The few women he had been with since returning from war had mostly ignored it.

“I. Well. It’s just” he stuttered not finding the words

Sherlock gently followed the lines radiating out from the badly healed wound where they knotted and curved and drew the undamaged skin in towards the epicentre of the scar where the bullet had entered.

“I had no idea it was as large, had done as much damage. I’m sorry. It must have been excruciating for a long time”

John turned his head away from Sherlock sharply. He had nothing to say, couldn’t find the words to express the extent of the damage the wound had done, the way it had decimated his life, his identity and his career.

Sherlock saw the look on John’s face and was confused. Did the shoulder still hurt or was it more? Suddenly, John kissed him deeply and more forcefully, moving from his back to half lying over Sherlock.

“My turn?” he growled, lust taking over from the relaxation. He kissed and nipped his way along Sherlock’s jawline and down his neck and over to his right shoulder, then inwards. He moved over to the pale skin of Sherlock’s right shoulder and again kissed his way in until he reached the point where the collar bones met, that sensitive, delicate spot he had so often admired. He took a moment to kiss and lick that spot, groaning slightly until he moved down over the lightly haired chest.

Each nipple was sucked in turn, bitten gently. Sherlock let out a low, deep groan and experimentally John bit a little more firmly. Sherlock curved his back up in response, pushing his nipple into John’s mouth. John stored that away for later.

John turned his attention to the insides of Sherlock’s arm, kissing his way down the biceps and then into the sensitive skin in the crook of his elbow. Sherlock suddenly twisted his arm in, away from John’s kisses and John looked up in surprise. Meeting Sherlock’s eyes he was surprised to see anger flashing in the grey eyes.

“No John!”

It was shocking after the dream-like state they had been in. It took John a moment to realise what was going on as he watched Sherlock’s face. He lifted himself up and kissed Sherlock deeply, tongues clashing and teeth catching.

“I know what’s there, Sherlock. I’ve seen your scars before. I let you look at mine, even though it was uncomfortable and made me remember. Let me see you. Let me see all of you”. He held the other arm and turned it so the elbow was facing up.

Sherlock closed his eyes but turned both arms palm upwards again. John saw all the tiny pinprick scars inside the joints and as he ran his fingers over the line of the vein, bright blue against the contrast of the palest of skin, he noticed that the injection sites went nearly all the way down Sherlock’s arms, ending just centimetres before his wrists.

“You’re beautiful” John declared, thinking of the way his words had affected Sherlock earlier. Sherlock responded with a scowl, but relaxed a little.

John had seen some of these marks before when he had been patching Sherlock up, but had never seen them all or so close. He had no idea there were so many. He moved his lips down to the soft white skin and began to kiss each tiny scar. He was a doctor and he had seen the evidence of drug abuse many times before. He went looking for other injection sites, the soles of Sherlock’s feet, the backs of his knees and even under his arms. With each new location, more murmured reassurance.

“Glorious”

“Just perfect”

“Too gorgeous”

He glanced up to see Sherlock watching him intently, eyes green and glittering.

Gently and methodically, John kissed every one of them, wanting Sherlock to know he accepted this part of the man but slowly becoming sadder as he realised the extent of the injection sites and the age of some of the scars. Two or three were larger where there skin had obviously become infected. He took small comfort from the fact that there were no new sites, only old scars. Sherlock relaxed again and the kisses produced soft sighs and then deeper groans.

Working his way up from the back of Sherlock’s knees to his inner thighs, John spread the long legs wider so he could see better. There were a few scars on the insides of the thighs but as John pressed his tongue into the sensitive spot where the top of Sherlock’s thighs met his balls and he began to lick and kiss, he was dismayed to see a few of the tiny scars here in that most delicate of places.

It nearly broke his heart.

*     *      *

Sherlock was in turmoil, his mind racing, decisions made and changed again at the speed of light. John was looking. He would see, know the truth of what Sherlock had done to himself, the evidence of his failings. He would see and know and that would be it, all over. Who could possibly want him after they had seen the truth of his self-abuse, the extent of it, the lengths he had gone to getting the drugs into his system, the hated weakness that pushed him to oblivion.

John had kissed him and his mind had begun to quiet, just a little. It would be an experiment. He would time how long it would take before John was repulsed enough, angry enough, to pull away and that would be that. Sherlock started his internal stopwatch and distracted himself by watching the second hand tick past. Ten, twenty, thirty.

Then came the words, the unexpected kind words. He thought he had misheard the first one, looked down at John in confusion, but the kisses and the soft words kept coming. John was not withdrawing and the gentle kisses felt so nice. It felt like John was kissing his scars better. He scolded himself for such a ridiculous sentimental thought but allowed himself to drift into the relaxation the kisses brought. Dopamine, he identified. Norepinephrine and epinephrine. Straight to his limbic system. Just like cocaine.

Then all of a sudden there was John, looking up at him, _smiling_ at him and with his hand resting gently on Sherlock’s surprisingly hard dick and Sherlock felt the kick of adrenaline.

*   *   *

Flipping John over onto his back, Sherlock made a slow growl in the back of his throat as he kissed, then licked and finally bit John’s neck. The gasp this produced from John encouraged him and Sherlock decided to conduct an experiment to find out how else he could make John produce that glorious gasp.

“I am going to make you forget what you saw” he whispered, threateningly, into the other man’s ear and promptly dropped his head to John’s chest and began to lick and bite at John’s nipples, delighted to receive another gasp. John’s fingers were in Sherlock’s hair, firm fingertips massaging his scalp, pulling Sherlock’s head down, John wanting more. He trailed his tongue down John’s stomach promisingly but at the last moment, flipped John back onto his stomach and began to lick and bite John’s arse, moving lower until he reached the delicious line where tops of thighs became backside and buried his nose in, licking lavisciously and moving in towards John’s balls. He stopped just before reaching them, hovering over with his tongue pocking out.

“Ah, Sherlock, please” John begged but Sherlock was unrelenting and began his exploration of John’s other arse cheek, repeating the tantalising kisses in towards John’s sac from the other side. This time Sherlock slid his hand underneath John and gripped his very hard, hot dick. There wasn’t enough room for him to move his hand, but it didn’t matter because at the first touch, John rutted and pushed into the hand, crying out in delight at the touch. Sherlock spread John’s thighs slightly, dipped his head and took John’s balls into his mouth, sucking and licking and pressing first his tongue firmly on the perineum.

“Oh Sherlock, I’m close, Oh I want to kiss you, please!” John begged plaintively. Instead, Sherlock suddenly removed his hand and, with a bit more persuasion this time, moved the panting John over onto his back.

“Sherlock, oh god, oh, I was so close, please”

“I know. Soon, but not quite yet” his voice was deep and dark, slow and sticky. Forceful. John grabbed Sherlock and kissed him hard, revelling in this extraordinary voice. Sherlock ran his hands up John’s arms and carefully lifted them to above their heads. Holding them firmly in place, Sherlock lay on top of John and using the copious amount of pre-come they were both producing and already covered John’s stomach began to rub and slide their hard dicks together. Now Sherlock had joined John in groaning and with each sound, John bucked his hips hard and pushed into Sherlock’s firm stomach.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock watching him intently, his pupils blown so wide there was just the smallest of blue-green visible. Sherlock dipped down and kissed him tenderly and in a voice husky and demanding instructed “Come John. I need to see you come for me”.

And with an almost painful intensity, John came and came, his head thrown back and Sherlock’s name in his throat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am happy to say that I have never used any illegal substance and have certainly never injected drugs. I also chose not to google that, because I didn't really need to see it. So any inaccuracies I will take full responsibility for.


End file.
